As Within As Without
by ScioEtTaceo
Summary: Helena and her brother have managed to endure this harsh new world, but it hasn't been easy. It's not just the endless terrain of hunger, thirst, and fear. Deaf since birth, Helena must rely on her brother's ears to live. But, Marc has his own demons to face, trying to come to grips with reality after years of war. In the end, they will have to rely on one another to survive.
1. To Cross a Sea

You won't believe me when I tell you this, but I've managed to survive this harsh world, even though I'm deaf.

It doesn't hurt that my brother's with me, or that he's an ex-Marine. He fights, he runs, he kicks, he punches; he does it all! He taught me how to use my 9 mm when we were just kids. I think I'm a decent shot. Give me a shotgun, and I'm a hell of a good one.

Before we had to leave the crumbling ruin of what had once been our home, Marc even taught me how to wield a combat knife. It's not very big, and I swing it kind of clumsily; but, I can stick the pointy end where it needs to be. Besides, I like having a weapon that doesn't have to be reloaded. Ammo is a precious commodity nowadays.

Marc touches my shoulder. That's how he starts a conversation.

We've been studying the field before us for several minutes now from the shade of the tree line. The grass before us sways with each gust of wind. The stalks are taller than me, and their green hue is slowing give way to brown. Summer is almost over. I try not to think about what happens after.

_I think we have to risk it_, he signs to me. Marc learned to sign long ago, and I understand him perfectly. _What do you think?_

Wading through the field is risky. Who knows what – or who – is hiding in there. One Dead bite to the ankle, and you're a goner. But going around the field means going hours out of our way. And dusk is coming.

My answer is simple: _I trust you._

I _do_ trust him. He's gotten us this far, and we're not dead yet.

Now lest you begin to think I'm totally helpless, I still have my other senses, and four out of five ain't bad. I've learned to experience the world in ways most people don't even bother with. I bet I see better and farther than you do. I can smell the Dead in the wind, and even feel the ground rumble with a coming herd well before my brother can. Besides, the Dead aren't exactly known for their stealth; so as long as I keep my eyes open, I usually see them coming. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Marc nods, and without any further ado, he marches into the field. The grass comes just below his neck, and he begins cutting it away with his machete. I take a quick peak around to see if anything's sneaking up on us, but we're in the clear. I pull out my knife and descend into the grass, careful to stay no more than a few feet behind him, stepping only where he steps.

As we walk, I steal many glances around us. I sniff the air, but smell only musty foliage. I probably look pretty paranoid, but I don't look nearly as bad as I used to. Now it was all part of the routine. At least, as routine as you can get with your heart ready to thump right out of your chest.

I remember my dad telling me when I was little girl that you could hear someone's heartbeat. Later that year, we all went on a 'haunted trail' together for Halloween, and my heart thumped so painfully that I was certain everyone around me could hear it. I wrapped my hands tightly around myself to trap the sound, but it still pounded beneath my ribs. Then my father looked down at me, and took my hand, shaking his head gently. He explained to me that you had to put your ear to someone's chest to hear their heartbeat, and that I shouldn't be worried. I smiled when he told me that, because that was how I felt a heartbeat – with my face against someone's chest.

I don't know why I'm thinking about this now, or even why I'm telling you. I just see his hands in my mind, telling me not to worry, over and over again.

We're halfway through the field now, and my brother stops suddenly. From his stance, I can tell he's heard something. I sniff the air again, and the scent, though faint at first, hits me like a boulder; it was a smell that was entirely unmistakable: rotten flesh.

I see the grass beginning to part to my left, and a Dead face peering out from within it like a skull. Even though I've seen that face a thousand times, each time still feels like the first. I move before fear has a chance to cripple me, plunging my knife right through his eye just as his hands clamp down on my shoulders. I push him off of me in disgust. Something's pulling at my boot; I look down, and without any further thought, stomp on the Dead man's head. It bursts like a rotten melon, but smells far worse.

Marc's already taken care of three of the Dead, and he's looking at me now. _Go_, he signs, without expression.

I rush past him toward the tree line at the other end. I see the Dead in my periphery and feel their fingertips clawing at my jacket. I ignore them and push forward toward the closest tree. _Too short._ Then dart right. _Thin branches. _ Move to the next one. _No branches._ Great, just great.

Finally, I spot a suitable tree about 25 yards ahead, and sprint toward it with a burst of adrenaline. Upon reaching it, I began to climb frantically. That's something else I'm good at: climbing. Hiding in a tree might not be the noblest of actions, but – contrary to every movie, TV show, and video game you've ever seen – bravery is more likely to get you killed than not. Marc and I had learned that lesson early on, back before I was willing to just _go._

Up and up I climb. The Dead converge at the base of the tree, looking for a way to grab me, their hands reaching upward. _All around the mulberry bush the monkey chased the weasel_, I muse erratically to myself. I see my father sign the lyrics for me.

_Don't worry_, he adds.


	2. The Presence of Death

From this high up, I can almost see the whole field. I can't quite make out Marc, but I see fresh blood as it sprays over the stalks, and I know from the startled birds in flight that he's shooting his gun.

I want to go back to help him, but my mind ruthlessly suppresses the urge. Instead, I try to focus on what I can do. What's practical to do.

Marc's going to come looking for me soon, and while I know he's smart enough to come straight to the tree surrounded by the Dead, I won't let him deal with more than he has to.

I quickly unclasp the two clips of my backpack, one across my ribs and one around my waist, and struggle my right arm out of the shoulder strap. The bag carefully clutched in my left hand, I rip open a zipper on the side, and pull out a rock about the size of my fist.

I played softball in high school, but I never learned how to throw a ball down. So, I take my time aiming, swearing inwardly every time the Dead man right below me sways his head. Exhaling slowly, I pitch the rock at his forehead, a small feeling of triumph bursting inside me as it plummets through his scalp like a meteor.

I can't get too excited, because I miss the next one. I had four rocks to begin with; I would have brought more, but we carry everything we own on our backs. And when you walk all day, everyday, subsisting on the bare minimum of food and water, you become picky about what you're willing and able to carry.

The next rock whips right past my intended target, hitting the one behind in the leg. She doesn't die, but she does fall, unable to balance on just her right foot.

I'm beginning to feel stupid about being happy, at all.

My last rock actually reaches its mark, but I still have three Dead ones left, not including the immobile one squirming around on the ground. I hate wasting my ammo, especially if it means attracting more of them.

So, what are my options? A grenade Marc gave me to hold, because he doesn't have room for it. I'm not even sure how to use it, whether it would even work, or – worse – whether it would knock me right out of the tree. Besides, I have a feeling Marc's waiting to use it for something drastic. So, no grenade, then.

My knife? I pull it out of its sheath. I have no idea how to properly throw a knife. I suppose it couldn't hurt to try, but I'm afraid of somehow losing it.

I could climb back down the tree, but that only defeats the point of going there in the first place.

I could do nothing. That option repels me the most of all.

Mentally sighing, I pull out my gun, but before I have a chance to fire a round, Marc appears at the base of the tree. He plunges his knife into the three Dead ones' heads before they even know he's there. If I wasn't so happy to see him, I'd feel oddly deflated.

Marc stomps on the Dead woman's head just before he begins to scale the tree himself. While he does this, I re-zip my bag, and throw it back over my shoulder. I look back over the branch to see he's much closer now. He's covered in blood, but I think – I hope – none of it is his.

Marc finally reaches a thick branch close to me, nearly at an even level. I'm not surprised. The light is dying, and we're going to need to 'make camp.' I use the term loosely, because we usually set up camp in a tree. I suppose most survivors take turns keeping watch, but I can't do that alone, and Marc can't keep watch all night, every night.

I toss him a length of climbing rope and a carabiner. Then I help him wrap it around the tree, before he helps me wrap mine. I lean against my backpack and pull the rope snugly across my waist before clipping it shut.

As I nibble on a handful of nuts and berries, Marc tries to wash his face with nothing but a fistful of water and a rag. I hand him his own small mixture of food once he's done.

Some time later, I glance over at my brother. He's looking off into the dark, and from the sleepy glaze in his eyes, I know that he's not really here.

He's in the deserts of Afghanistan. Maybe curled up in some cold, wet cave with only a rifle for company. Or maybe crouched in the corner of some smoldering hovel, trying to remember what it means to be happy while the world explodes around him. He knows he has to save his brothers, but he can't seem to pull his hands away from his ears.

_Is this what it was like over there?, _ I sign to him in the moonlight.

He shakes his head, but doesn't look at me directly.

I'm surprised. I know I'll never truly understand what it meant to be over there, but I do know what it means to be afraid, to hunger and thirst, and spiral deeply – and painfully – into remorse.

_Not at all? _

Marc doesn't answer me at first. I think he might not have seen me, but it's more likely that he does not wish to answer. I'm about to lean into the shadow of the tree, when he says –

_There's one thing that's the same._

I wait for him to go on.

Marc finally meets my eyes, his lips curled in a bemused expression, like he can't believe I don't already know.

He gestures all around us. _The presence of death. _

Then he closes his eyes, feigning sleep he knows will never come.


End file.
